You don’t just remove the
Crow of the rooster in the morning,
The crisp biting air,
Nor the sense of freedom.
This is lodged in you,
As it should with any person
Who’s come to their senses,
As the senses call you back.

When you live with a shovel in your hand,
Tossing dirt on yourself in the pit you made,
You are dead.
When you live adjusting your mask so others see it just right,
Assuring others are fooled with your perfected painful presentation,
You are dead.
When you live running past opportunity,
Fearful of all the failures you foresee,
You are dead.

But when you find your identity
you serve others,
When you live your identity
you live wide awake,
When you rest in your identity
you honor what you are made for.